


Rose...Thou Art Sick

by Chispas_and_broken_bindings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cersei is the showrunner, F/M, Jon Snow is a professional soccer player, Reality TV, Sansa is her protege, Sansa is overworked and a bit burned out, The Bachelor AU, Unreal AU, Vulgar Language, a little bit murder mystery, a little bit noir, a little bit of romance, a lot of snark, mostly from cersei
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chispas_and_broken_bindings/pseuds/Chispas_and_broken_bindings
Summary: Just off the western coast of Westeros, in the Sunset Sea, lies the aptly named Fair Isle, for its weather is mild, its hills are verdant, and along its thirty miles of coastline lies the pefect mix of picturesque bluffs, white sand beaches, and...maybe a dead body or two.Every year, viewers across the nation tune in to watch Faircastle, the white stone retreat of the fabulously wealthy Lannister family, fill up with beautiful young women, eagerly hoping to find love with The Prince Who Was Promised.This year, on the tenth anniversary of the hit show, Cersei Lannister, the cunning showrunner who makes the magic happen, has bagged herself a most famous prince, and is ready to expand the franchise. The loyalty of her protege, the mysterious Alayne Stone is tested when her past threatens to catch up to her.Come for the drama...stay for the murder? (I don't know. I'm so bad at summaries, guys)
Relationships: Cersei Lannister & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 93
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

_O Rose thou art sick._

_The invisible worm,_

_That flies in the night_

_In the howling storm:_

_Has found out thy bed_

_Of crimson joy:_

_And his dark secret love_

_Does thy life destroy._

_~ William Blake_

  
  


Once again, she was late to the island. This time, it wasn't her fault. She'd even expressed this inevitability when she was pushed into the back of a cab two weeks ago on an impossible mission. 

Unfortunately, it wouldn't matter that she was returning, successful. It also wouldn't matter how fast the tires ate the pavement beneath where she lay, cramped and aching against the scratchy, polyester floor of a limousine, her legs pretzel’d and asleep beneath the champagne table, doing her very best to stay out of Bronn's camera and push away all memories of her inaugural crossing of the Fair Isle bridge. They had only just left the infamous overpass which was at least twenty minutes from the castle, and her girls—her five giddy, glittering girls; waxed and polished, powdered and primped, in their shocks of pink and yellow and aquamarine, looking like five silk flowers desperate to appear real—were already failing her. 

"Um, excuse me, Alayne, but I really need to pee." Gilly was at least polite about opening the floodgates. 

"Seven hells! Me too," Val groaned. 

"Me three!"

"Gods, same. How much further?"

Sansa's temple throbbed. Anxious excitement and Yves Saint Laurent perfume swirled through the cramped compartment, clinging to collarbones and cleavage, and coating Sansa's already chapped lips. It had been at least three days since she'd had anything resembling a decent meal or adequate sleep, and she was too raw for the moment. _You've drunk up two bottles of champagne already, ladies. What did you expect?_

"Where is limo four?" Cersei chose that moment to bark through her earpiece. "You better be breaking the sound barrier, little dove, because we need you here, right now."

"I can do a lot, Cersei, but I can't control the laws of physics," Sansa answered, wincing at how hoarse she already sounded. _It's only night one._

"We just passed the bluffs, ma'am. We'll be pulling up straight away," Lancel, the driver, tagged in.

"If I don't see your headlights coming up the drive in ten, I'm going to eat your heart for breakfast." 

"Aye, ma'am. I'll cut it out myself," Lancel said, ever eager to please their master. _Sycophant._ Cersei owned Fair Isle and every person on it... even the dead weren't exempt from her rule. Try as she might to free herself, Sansa kept returning to the cursed kingdom, always drawn back by Cersei. For she was more than a queen. She was a god; a seductive, spiteful god who required regular ritual sacrifice and showed no mercy; not to anyone. 

"Okay, here we go people," Cersei's voice cracked like a whip through the open channel. "Opening night of The Promised Prince. Let's give them what they want. Ponies. Tiaras. Taffeta. _Romance_. It's all a bunch of crap but someone has to sell it... Jaime, that's where you come in, my golden lion."

Cersei's twin could sell cow shit to a dairy farmer. Sansa pictured him strolling into the frame of monitor one, all effortless grace in his Brioni or Brunello Cucinelli suit (for he favored Italian designers, of course), threatening to upstage the prince with nothing but a knowing smirk. 

" _Good evening, Westeros. I'm Jaime Lannister... and no, I am not the Prince that was Promised…"_

Ten seasons in, and somehow, the line never grew stale. Jaime had more fan tributes, as the host, than all the previous princes combined. It was a respectable streak, but one due to end this year; a fact Tyrion was a little _too_ smug about, in Sansa's humble opinion. If it weren't for Jaime, he wouldn't even be allowed on the island, let alone get a producing credit. Cersei hated her younger brother as much as she loved her twin. During late night editing sessions, after she'd drunk a few too many glasses of wine, she liked to share with Sansa, her fantasies of crushing Tyrion like a worm beneath her Louboutin heels, or drowning him in the main courtyard's fountain with her beautifully manicured hands. Once, she went into disturbing detail about how she longed to slice him open with the golden shears that she kept on her desk, gullet to groin, before throwing him from the bluffs, piece by little piece, for the tiger sharks to eat. 

It was an enmity returned measure for measure by the little lion, himself, though he preferred to broadcast his plans for Cersei's grisly demise to the entire crew, from the corner stool of the island's only pub; The Merry Maid. 

The cab lurched as Lancel pressed on the gas, knocking Bronn's camera into Gilly's arm and the remains of her drink across Sansa's thigh. Mya shifted her criminally long legs, in an effort to avoid the mess, gracing everyone with an unrestricted view up her basketball jersey-turned-dress.

"Hope the prince likes bush," muttered Bronn, eliciting faint titters from Myranda and Val, and uncomfortable glares from everyone else.

"Don't mind him, Mya," Sansa said. "Accidental car exposures get left on the editing room floor, and your swag bags will have all the hair removal accoutrements you could possibly need over the coming weeks."

In a forest of smooth, lacquered legs, Sansa was acutely aware of her own dry, stubbly shins currently encased in dark, unwashed jeans that probably smelled like sweaty regret, sleepless nights... and now, Veuve Clicquot.

" _Ope_! Sorry!" Gilly bent over, as if to dab the mess with her empty hand. The northern colloquialism was a slap and a caress in one, and Sansa felt an urgent need to remove herself from the situation. Her neck was about to spasm, and then she'd likely be stuck lying on the floor of the limo, covered in spilled wine and glitter, until the rats found her body. 

On Fair Isle, we leave the dead where they fall. 

"Are we going to stop for a piss break or what?" Val pounded on the partition, but the speed only increased. Sansa pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, listening to Cersei chew out Renly in one ear, and her contenders begging for a pit stop in the other. 

"Do you want to know who the prince is?" She stretched for her messenger bag, tucked behind Myranda's strappy pumps, as the women squealed in affirmation above her, their bathroom emergency momentarily forgotten. "'Well, his name is Jon Snow,"' she pressed the slightly crumpled headshot into Talla's hand. "He's a professional soccer player who is considered by many to be one of the greatest in his generation."

"But... I _know_ him," Talla said, and Val scoffed, ripping the sheet from her trembling hands. 

"No shit. Anyone not living in a bunker for the last decade knows who Jon Snow is." 

Sansa caught Talla's eye and winked. Everyone knew of Jon Snow, small town wunderkind turned league leading scorer, known for his explosive temper on the field, and his extreme privacy off it, but Talla was the only contender who really _knew_ Jon Snow. Her older brother was his university roommate and best friend, after all. During her interview, she'd even revealed to Sansa that he was her first crush. Talla had gone so far as to once steal his discarded underwear off his dormitory floor... a misdemeanor she promised she would _not_ be bringing up with the prince, whoever _he_ turned out to be. 

There was cheering all around from the other four women until Myranda asked the obvious. "How the hell did the show get Jon Snow to agree to be the prince?"

_An excellent question,_ Sansa thought, and one she didn't yet have an answer to. "Well ladies, we all know he doesn't need money or fame...so there is only one answer. He's obviously looking for love." She was confident that he was _not_ looking for love, based on her nine years producing experience, and Cersei's increasingly angry muttering over the walkie, but the sentiment earned her a toast from her girls, and more spilled champagne, this time on her sweater, so the lie was totally worth it. 

"Do I need to send Myrcella down there with a jar of vaseline to rub on the prince's teeth?" Cersei hissed. "Does the man even know how to smile?"

"He's famous for his scowl, Cersei." Tyrion was all smooth assurances. "Women love it. It's on brand."

"They love it when he's staring down a referee holding a red card, not intimidating a twenty-two-year-old elementary school teacher from the Riverlands. Produce your man, Tyrion, or I'll come down there and do it myself." 

If Cersei Lannister descended from her tower before the rose ceremony, it was likely to be a very painful season for all involved. 

"I've got it _handled_ , dear sister," Tyrion ground out. "My blue ribbon has just pulled up, in a Maybach no less, and there is no way Jon will frown when he sees _her._ " 

Sansa knew of whom he spoke... Daenerys Targaryen; actress, philanthropist, and the sweetheart of Westeros (at least until her former personal assistant started leaking to the press). She'd be the first _truly_ famous contender for the first _truly_ famous prince the show had ever had, and it was all part of Tyrion's grand vision for the future. She'd listened to him wax poetic on the subject enough nights, as he moped over an empty bottle of wine, that she could probably pitch _The Promised Prince - Celebrity Edition_ to Tywin Lannister herself... not that she cared to. 

"Tyrion is such a fucking idiot. I'm going to lose my mind." Sansa coughed down her laugh as Cersei went off in her ear. "Viewers watch my show so they can be petty bitches about all the losers and so they can self-insert into the winner. How is an accountant in the Vale going to see herself in this silver-haired Essosi-raised bitch with a smile as fake as her social justice warrior act? Tyrion thinks _she's_ Wifey material? Give me a fucking break."

"You know you're on channel one, right?" Renly butt in. 

"Yes. It's called constructive feedback. It's part of my _job_ to provide it to you runty shitcans. Tyrion, move it along. I asked for a _smile_ , not constipated confusion. If I don't get a shot of the prince smiling at a woman tonight, you are _all_ fired."

The channel went quiet right after a crash that Sansa could only assume was Tyrion throwing his walkie at a wall. She twitched as a muscle clenched in her lower back. 

"Lancel, can you pull over? The girls need to pee." 

"Cersei said-"

"Just do it. Do you think Cersei wants a woman to wet herself on national television?"

He screeched to a stop, letting the girls totter out towards the beach. They pointed up at the star-filled sky in appreciation, squatting inelegantly in the high grass, trying not to spray their gowns or show too much to the cameraman taking a smoke break on the hood of the car. Sansa sucked in the fresh sea air through the open door. She also had to pee, but she could not rise without assistance, and she refused to ask one of her sparkly twenty-something wards for help. She felt ancient enough in their presence, and even she had _some_ pride left. 

They jostled her only a little when they returned, climbing over her prone body in their six-inch heels, dusting her with sand and nary a _sorry_ to be heard. _I have become a literal doormat,_ she mused. A _landing place for all their detritus._

It was fitting. She'd collect as much dirt as she could get over the next ten weeks, and then she'd carefully brush it off, into labeled specimen bags, before pressing each speck between plates of glass. Then, she and Cersei would sort through it all, putting everything beneath their magnifying glass, where they'd expose the filthiest bits for the entire world to see. 

_Then we'll see who is left lying on the floor._

"Alright ladies, listen up. We're almost to the castle. Stick to your planned introductions, okay? I know you want to be natural and spontaneous, but I promise you, that first moment, when you are hit with the lights and the cameras and your first glimpse of Jon Snow in the flesh, your brain and your body will short circuit and betray you. Any attempts at ad-lib are liable to make it into the cringe-reel. Got it?"

Her girls were quiet for the first moment all night, and she felt the tiniest twinge of empathy for them. If she were a better person, she'd have directed Lancel to turn the limo around and get the girls off the island before it was too late. 

But she was not a better person. 

"Look, you're my girls. I didn't recruit you just so you'd be eliminated week one. Okay? I recruited you because you are fabulous and you have staying power."

"Are we the only five you recruited? How many contestants are there, anyway?" Val asked. 

"We're called contenders,"' Myranda said. "Haven't you watched the show?"

"No," Val rolled her eyes."Whatever. How many _contenders_ are there?" She was already a flight risk, and Sansa was producing fewer women than anyone else this season. She couldn't afford a runner.

"Don't focus on the number of women. Focus on the _one_ man, okay? Tonight is going to be long, so in the early hours, drink some water, eat some food, and I _promise_ , I'll be here for _you_ and your success on this journey."

Sansa wasn't actually there for any of the women gazing down at her in apprehension. She was there for... well, to be honest, she wasn't there _for_ anyone. She was there because this was her home, or at least the only one left to her. Was there blood on the walls? And corpses under the floorboards? Sure, but the rose garden was in high bloom, and they kept the windows open so the sea breeze would carry the rot away.

Were her family members monsters? Yes, but so was she. 

Myranda swilled her glass, before downing the rest of her wine with a huff. "You're producing five of us, and there can be only one winner... Make that make sense." 

_I'm actually producing six of you, but Allyria already arrived in a horse-drawn carriage and doesn't need any coaching on night one._ Myranda, on the other hand, was going to be a full-time job, but if Sansa's instincts were anything, she'd be worth it. She'd be a fan favorite, or a villain, or better yet, she'd be both. What she definitely wouldn't be, was Jon Snow's type. But no matter, she'd be fantastic in the confessional booth, and that was why Sansa recruited her. 

She just had to convince the prince, through his producer, Tyrion, to keep her on long enough to prove it. 

"Look, I'm not prescient, nor am I a witch who can concoct a magic potion that will control who the prince falls in love with. What I am, is a damn good producer, who recruited the last three winners and two of the runners-up in the most recent seasons of _The Promised Prince_ , so trust me when I tell you, I'm in it to win it just as much as you five are. Now who needs to go over their intro again?"

When Lancel turned the limousine onto the long, tree-lined drive up to the castle, Cersei rasped, "the clock is going to strike midnight before your Cinderellas ever make it to the ball."

"We're pulling up now. Good things come to those who wait."

"Whatever. Save your over-the-toilet inspiration for your contenders, Alayne."

But it was Sansa who needed it. The next half hour was agony. As she cooed to her increasingly agitated girls, urging for calm, she did her best to ignore the pressure on her bladder, and the knot beneath her shoulder blade that seemed to pulse in ever wider radius with each passing minute. Every time the door opened and another contender left, pain rippled down her back. 

Talla was the last to exit, and she hovered by the door a moment before saying, "Alayne, are you alright?"

_No, Talla. I am not "alright". No thirty-three-year-old who is "alright" would spend her summer flying around Westeros, sleeping in cheap motels, living off noodle cups and coffee just so she can wrangle naïve young women, like she's Bluebeard's pimp, onto a cursed island under the pretense of finding "true love"._

"I'm fine, Talla. Just leave the door open, yeah?"

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is a bit of a departure from my usual fare...Dark Sansa and all that, so if that does not appeal to you, please don't read. This is not commentary or reflection on what I think her character is like or will be like in canon. It's just a fic. 
> 
> Even so, I'll not abide Sansa antis in the comments. If you don't like Sansa, by all means hate read to your heart's delight, but I'm very free with "Delete" button. My fic. My space. Let's keep it fun.


	2. Chapter 2

She wished she could watch the moment Jon Snow’s eyes found Talla. _A familiar face in a sea of strangers._ They were mere yards away, but she was blind where she lay. She was able to make out a brief gasp, followed by the low tones of friendly conversation though, and it was easy to imagine them sharing a warm hug. The thought of finally delivering that elusive smile to Cersei gave Sansa a small thrill of victory. 

But only for a moment. 

“ _Cut!”_ Cersei screamed into the channel, and Sansa flinched, setting her whole back on fire. “Get that little fucker on the line, right now. The first moment of halfway decent footage, and he calls himself _the dude?_ I can’t with this one. He’s fucking _useless._ Who's the cameraman that looks like Paul Bunyan? It’s not too late to make him the prince. _”_ _Did she mean Gendry?_ He’d be terrible on the other side of the lens... 

“It is too late, _sister_ . Contracts have been signed,” Tyrion said, and Sansa was desperate to see what was happening. She felt like she was reading the reviews of a book that she’d written, but somehow couldn’t recall. There was a moment of silence while they waited for Tyrion to hand his earpiece over. _Did Jon Snow really call himself the dude?_ She’d seen him interviewed at press conferences. While he kept his answers brief, he always seemed articulate. It wasn’t like the show hadn’t had it’s fill of dumb princes in the past, but the thought of the first _northern_ prince being an idiot, dug into a soft spot Sansa didn’t know she had left. 

“I’m not calling myself a prince. I’m _not._ It’s humiliating.” A deep voice keyed in, and Sansa groaned. This was going to be ugly. 

“It’s the name of the show. The show _you_ signed up for.” Cersei said, each word plunking against the next like dominos about to fall. 

“Well, I’m not doing it.”

“Okay fuckboy, you’re not the first man too incompetent to follow the most basic direction. If you can’t let the word pass through those puffed up lips of yours, call yourself the _suitor_ , okay? Because if I hear you call yourself ‘the dude’ or ‘the guy’ or some other name that makes you sound like you're a moron in a stoner film, I’m going to come down there and strangle you with an extension cord. Am I clear?”

There was a long pause, and then Tyrion was back. “He’s got it.”

“Tremendous. Now do the scene again.” 

Sansa made a pathetic effort to roll onto her side, but something was torn, and twisting was impossible. Worse, whatever magic she had been hoping to conjure with Talla was likely lost. She told herself it would be fine. There were other aces up her sleeve, if only her body would knit itself together long enough for her to play them.

Her hands rubbed over the rough pile of the floor mat, feeling the dirt and sand pop up between her fingertips, as she played imagined conversations between Jon and the various contenders through her head, waiting for the take to be over, so she could call for help. 

“And that’s a wrap on the intros!” Tyrion called, the walkie channel sparking back to life. 

“Thank the gods.”

“I’m starving...what’s Hot Pie serving at the crafty table?”

“Who cares? I’ll eat one of the contenders, if I don’t get food in my belly soon. The curvy one in gold looked like a _snack_.”

Sansa’s stomach grumbled at the thought of one of Hot Pie’s lemon bars, though of a more pressing concern was her inability to literally pick herself up off the floor. Lancel and Bronn had both bailed as soon as the limousine was parked. She was helpless and alone. 

“Lancel?” she called, hoping he was still nearby. She was not in the mood to broadcast her predicament to the whole crew. _Look everyone, the washed up talent-turned-producer is back...more broken and brittle than ever._ “Lancel? Bronn… someone...anyone? I could use a hand here...”

_They couldn’t have cleared out that fast, could they?_ She closed her eyes, willing some part of her body to cooperate when a man responded at last, albeit with a heavy dose of reluctance. “Um, yeah. Coming… I guess.”

_You guess?_ “Oh, my god. There will be plenty of ham roll-ups for everyone.” 

“Well, that’s good, because I’m bloody starving.” The voice was much nearer now. She hoped it was Gendry. No one else would let her live this down. “ _Oh_...are you alright?”

“I’m fantastic, obviously,” she groaned, finally opening her eyes to find the _suitor_ peering down at her. 

“Oh _no_ , not you. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” he said and she dug her knuckles into her eyelids. A reluctant suitor was the last thing she was equipped to handle at present. _Jon Snow_ was not her problem. 

“Where is Tyrion?” _He should be plying you with enough whiskey that you’ll loosen up and stick your tongue down a few throats before the sun rises._

“He’s currently flirting with the hair and makeup girl.” 

“Who else is around?”

But it was too late. Jon Snow was pushing his way inside, brushing away her attempt to halt him. He slid onto the bench seat behind her, bracketing her head between his cognac Derbies. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing...just a sore back.”

“Which part? Lumbar?” 

“Yeah...I don’t know. The whole thing maybe?”

Without warning, he hauled her up by the armpits, and she let out a completely undignified moan as he settled her between his legs, flush against his chest. 

“ _Ahh-_ ,” she pulled away, bending forward in pain. “It’s fine. Really.” But when he pressed his thumb just beneath her shoulder blade, she moaned again.

“You should take an ice bath and then apply a heat pad after,” he said, running a broad hand down her back, pausing to knead experimentally in a few more spots. “And drink more water...and less champagne.” He righted a bottle that was slowly leaking into the seat cushion. 

“Oh, I’ll get right on that. Right after all the yoga and therapy that I also _totally_ have time for.” Now that she was upright, feeling was pulsing back into her legs, filling her with prickly venom. She inspected the man beside her, dismayed to find him better-looking in person than he appeared on the tv or magazines. _What a cliche._ And he was so northern, it was unbearable. ”I can’t believe Cersei let you keep the beard.”

_“_ It’s in my contract,” he grinned, as if negotiating control over his own facial hair gave him the upper hand. _Keep lying to yourself, pal._

“Hey Bean,” Jaime materialized, leaning casually against the car door, his signature Treasurer Aluminum Gold in hand. “You’re late.”

“And not fashionably, I’m afraid.” She sighed, reaching for his cigarette, taking a clipped drag.”Help me out.”

But he ignored her outstretched hand, snapping back the cigarette so the ash speckled her boot. “I thought you quit.” 

Slowly, she blew smoke back into his face, unsure if he referred to her nicotine habit or something else. Either way, she’d never been any good at leaving things behind...just looking the other way. 

In the end, she needed one last undignified push from her rescuer before her feet hit the ground. When she turned to fully take in Jon Snow, the tenth promised prince in the ridiculously popular franchise, she was amused to find he was shorter than her. _Fit though._

“It seems you’ve acquired some of _my_ dirt.” She brushed her fingers across his fine wool lapel. “Don’t you know it’s supposed to work the other way around?” It was a nonsensical thing to say to a man who likely had no idea who she was, but he was standing very close, and her sleep-deprived brain was beginning to betray her. “Lollys! Come. The suitor needs zhuzhing.”

“Who are you?” Jon asked, but she just tugged at her sweater, trying to recall the last time she’d washed it. At least it hid the t-shirt beneath, which she’d turned inside out in the airport bathroom, with the disgusting realization that what had been facing the world was somehow cleaner than what touched her skin. Vanity, it seemed, plagued her even yet. 

“Why don’t you focus on the thirty young women inside, whose names you should be learning right now. Tyrion, come fetch your man, and get him a plate of ham rolls.”

“Pod! You heard the woman...though I think we can do better than processed deli meat, for Jon Snow,” Tyrion leered at her, his harried assistant at his heel. “I was beginning to think you’d run away at last, _Alayne_. It’s been so odd to see my sister without her shadow.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sansa turned back to Jaime, stealing another drag of his cigarette. “Where is she? In her tower?”

He patted her messy topknot, with a nod. “Plotting with her magic mirror. Welcome home, kiddo.” The endearment tugged at her. In another family, it’d be an invitation to fold herself into his arms; admit how ragged she felt. But that would be a fatal mistake, even with the laziest of the Lannisters. Jaime was as attracted by the scent of blood as his siblings, even if he was less likely to make the first cut. So, she hugged her bag instead, and made off with his gold. 

“At least take some ibuprofen, and remember to drink water,” Jon called out, sounding like every northern mother of Sansa’s childhood, as Pod pulled him in the other direction. He was going to be an absolute _disaster_. 

She eschewed the entrance hall, not quite ready to face the cacophony of the contenders, corralled in a pen of fake patina and crushed velvet, waiting for their stamped penny prince. Instead, she circled around the lit-up castle, past the courtyard with its topiaries, trained into towering chess pieces that cast menacing shadows across the checkered ground, and past the prize-winning roses, asleep among the thorns. She cut through the more humble potager garden to avoid the fleet of golf-carts, parked haphazardly near the tent where Hot Pie fed the crew, until she came to a nondescript door, half-hidden in a dark corner by the ivy whose roots found a home in each crack of the castle’s ancient stonework. 

Up, up, and up she climbed. It was no wonder how Cersei kept her figure, prowling up and down the narrow spiral of stairs each day, wine in one hand, rage in the other. Tonight, Sansa had barely crossed the threshold into the lion’s den, when she pounced. 

“You’re _late_.” She was leaning against her desk, watching her wall of monitors, her high cheekbones and toned arms glowing in the blue light. 

“Pesky things...bodies. Haven’t found a way to put mine in more than one place at a time.”

“You should have been a twin, like Jaime and I.” Sansa had enough difficulty keeping track of one self. She didn’t need another. “Did you get it?” Cersei held out her hand, still frowning at the screens. 

“I did,” Sansa fished the contract from her bag, keeping one eye on the figures moving across the wall. She watched Podrick flashing head shots at Jon while he ate, in one corner, while the object of Cersei’s question sat in the center of the action in the great hall, holding up a champagne flute to the other girls in a silent toast. “She comes with conditions, of course.” 

“I trust you didn’t agree to anything stupid.” Cersei made a show of flipping through the pages, but she never was one for the details. She was all gut instinct...ravenous, visceral instinct, that had long ago eaten Sansa whole and then spit her out again, forever changed. 

“Of course not,” Sansa soothed. Most of Olenna Tyrell’s demands centered on making sure her treasured granddaughter wasn’t made to look a fool on national television. Something Cersei would already have ensured, seeing as the young heiress was signing on to be their first ever _princess_ who was promised. She’d be sheltered and groomed through the next ten weeks in a way no other woman could hope for. “Though, we’ll need to film half the season at one of the Highgarden properties.” 

“Fucking Tyrells. Opportunistic, new money trash.” Cersei hated filming anywhere but the island. She didn’t like to leave her kingdom. 

“I just figured we’d swap out the Water Gardens. Filming the back half in the Reach would help distinguish the new show from the original.” _That, and all the men._

“We’ll have to placate Arianne. She’ll be up my ass if we drop the Water Gardens the first season we have a female lead. She still thinks it was _her_ idea, after that night we drank too much in San Remo.” Sansa was sure it _had_ been Arianne's idea… not that it mattered now. She promised Cersei she’d start an appeasement campaign with the hotelier immediately. She’d send her a bottle of the Barolo she favored, and maybe follow up with a private airing of this season's juiciest footage when they flew to Dorne in three weeks time. 

Arriane Martell loved the petty feuds that flared up each season, but she went absolutely bananas the year Wymar Royce was the prince. She was convinced two of the contenders were closet lesbians and would flood Sansa with text messages after each episode aired, waxing poetic about all the furtive glances and longing stares. With a bit of luck and some quality time in the editing room, Sansa was sure she could create a bespoke forbidden romance reel that would suit Arianne’s tastes. 

As she mused about the possibilities, Cersei slammed her wine glass on the table. “I hate the new prince. I don’t care if he’s famous. He’s boring. And don’t even get me started on that _beard._ ”

“You think every prince is boring.”

“Every _man_ is boring, little dove. They’re predictable...and easily manipulated. It’s why we fill the castle up with alcohol and desperate _girls_ . You know exactly what’s going to happen, but it's still entertaining to let the bull loose in the china shop.” _Especially when filming the destruction rakes in millions, and each piece of china belongs to some other poor schmuck, who had no idea you were going to destroy their treasured heirloom when they signed all their rights away._

_Not all the porcelain is destroyed_ , Sansa reminded herself. _Some of it can be pieced back together. Some of it is even recast in steel._

“I’ve made copies of Margaery’s conditions. I’ll pass it along to the other producers. Make sure everyone knows the rules.”

“Good,” Cersei turned away from the filming at last, giving Sansa a sharp once over. “You look like shit.”

She _felt_ like it. She’d been zig-zagging across the seven kingdoms over the last week, tying up loose ends, and procuring an eleventh hour agreement from the only woman Sansa had ever met who might actually be a match for Cersei when it came to ruthless scheming. She hadn’t slept in thirty six hours, and her body was in full-blown rebellion. _Not that she’d tell Cersei that._ She wasn’t stupid, anymore. “I’ll wash up before I hit the floor.”

“Renly and Tyrion can handle things for now, and we have Myrcella this year. Get some rest. You’ll be useless to me if you’re wandering the castle like a ghost. Keep your ear in, though. I’ll call you when whispered words are what I need.” 

Fear was Cersei’s instrument, but Sansa’s pretty lies were often more effective in pushing people where they needed to go. She left as Cersei poured herself another glass of wine, winding back down the tower and through the quiet halls of the eastern wing towards the sound of clinking glasses and nervous laughter. 

The suitor was still missing-in-action when she entered the gilded hall, but Renly sidled up to her as soon as she passed beneath the arch. 

“You’re not taking Margaery away from me,” he hissed. “Just because you filed the paperwork, doesn’t mean you get to swoop in and snatch her out from under me. _I_ recruited her. _I’m_ producing her.” 

“She’s yours,” Sansa said, pressing said paperwork into his chest. “I know hooking up with her brother in Ibiza all summer was a lot of work, Ren, so I wouldn’t dream of taking her away from you now.” 

Sansa had no interest in Margaery now, not when she was guaranteed to be just another runner-up. Sansa wanted her _later_ , when she’d have her own show, and Sansa would have an executive producing credit to her name...well, to Alayne’s name at least.

“Make fun all you want, hunny. She’s going all the way. That northern fool is going to put a ring on it, and _you_ are getting knocked off your pedestal. Say sayonara to that winning streak, sister.” 

_Fat chance._ But Sansa had no interest in baiting Renly right now. There’d be time enough in the coming weeks for a bit of friendly competition. She was sure bets were already flying between the crew, but she preferred to let things settle before she loosened her lips or her wallet. She’d never forget hanging all her hopes on a single contender, that first year Cersei forced her out of hiding in the costuming department to be an assistant producer. She lost half her paycheck and the means to fly home for Robb’s wedding.

Not that he had wanted her there. Not that _she_ could bear going. Catelyn’s angry phone call haunted her still. _Sansa, my sweet girl, what is happening to you?_

_Nothing, mother._

_It already happened._

_I already happened._

_And it can’t be undone._

_And I can’t be Winterfell’s daughter._

But she didn’t say that. She didn’t remember what she said. 

She did a quick loop through the hall, to check on her girls, but they were busy drinking their nerves away and sizing up the competition. Cersei was right. It’d be hours before things got interesting and the first rose ceremony wouldn’t be filmed until just before dawn. 

She slipped into the shadows, finding quiet in the library. Tyrion was the only other person who ever came here, but there was no way he’d seek solace in a book tonight. So Sansa lit the gas fireplace, it’s scentless flames a poor substitute for the sweet-smelling cherry logs she would lie before as a girl. She used to rest her head on Lady's soft fur, and fall asleep to her mother singing along to Patsy Cline after the younger kids were sent to bed. 

In a fit of nostalgia, she’d surely regret, Sansa plugged her earbuds into her phone and curled up with a pillow across the rug. She fell asleep listening for Cersei in one ear while Patsy called her home in the other. 

_I know that you’ve been foolin’ around on me right from the start_

_So I’ll give back your ring and I’ll take back my heart_

_And when you’re tired of foolin’ around with two or three_

_Just come on home and fool around with me.._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...so maybe this is turning into a self-indulgent Sansa sad fest...and yes I know I'm two chapters in and haven't gotten through one night. 
> 
> My editing eye does not control the shots. But...I hope you enjoy, nonetheless. After Sansa takes a little nap, we'll get to see her producing skillz in action. Also, she says Jon Snow isn't her problem....but Jon is definitely going to be her problem, if you know what I mean ;)


	3. Chapter 3

"Wake up, little dove."

_I'll wake up when I hit the ground…_

"Sansa!" Cersei's voice brought her to, face down on the library rug.

"I'm up. I'm up," she mumbled, remembering where she was and why she was and everything she needed to do before she'd sleep in her bed again. "How are things?" She wiped the side of her mouth, only mildly disgusted with herself. 

"Better. I have my first villain, and she's _delightful_."

Sansa yawned, regretting opting for the floor over the couch. Her back would never forgive her. "Who? Asha?"

"No. She's been quiet. It's Tyene, the psycho psychiatrist."

"Oh?" 

"She's been absolutely vicious about that neanderthal that Renly brought in; the plank face who has more testosterone in her system than all the men on this island combined." Sansa had no clue who she meant. With everything else she'd been juggling, it had been impossible to catch up on the last minute cast additions. Still, Cersei had a narrow definition of beauty, and contenders rarely made it on the show who didn't meet it. "Unfortunately, it's just snarky asides for now, but I suddenly can't wait for the mud wrestling group date." 

Sansa hadn't interviewed Tyene, but Cersei had scrawled in red ink across her file: _Nurse Ratched stole Shirley Temple's Face_ , and it was all she needed to know. 

She wandered down the hall where the contenders were quartered as Cersei filled her in on the night's highlights. Many of the women had arrived earlier in the week, and now their rooms were littered with rejected dresses and suitcases in various states of disorder. 

She stopped when she found _Daenerys Targaryen_ written across the top line of a placard. It was hard to imagine a movie star agreeing to bunk with eleven other women for weeks on end. But then again; she _was_ facing a relatability problem. More unclear was how the Alexander McQueen and Valentino gowns hanging from the curtain rod were going to do her any favors with the other girls, many of whom probably took serious chunks out of their savings or went into debt in order to acquire their wardrobe for the show. 

"Hurry. Missandei's listing her accomplishments to the suitor like she's interviewing for a job in the government. He doesn't care if you speak ten languages, you pompous brat. He wants to know how much your tits bounce when you fuck."

"And they say romance is dead." Sansa rifled through a gold lamé pouch on the bathroom counter, finding a tube of Dior 999 lipstick with an unbroken seal. As a girl, her mother always told her to stick to coral and peach shades. _Red will clash with your hair. Make you look older than you are._

"The only romance that exists is the kind people like you and I manufacture." 

"And we've really elevated the genre. The Bronte sisters would be so impressed."

"Spinster has-beens. And you're joining them if you don't get that skinny ass of yours downstairs and make some magic happen." 

"Give me five."

She inspected herself in the mirror, noting an ass that wasn't so skinny at thirty-three, as it had been a decade earlier. Her face was a different story; all sharp planes and shadows where there used to be glowing fullness. Perhaps all the collagen from her lips and cheeks had migrated south for _her_ spinsterhood. "Charlotte Bronte married at age thirty-eight," she reminded her reflection. "It isn't too late."

_And then she died... right after. A cautionary tale._ Her reflection frowned back, bringing forth the furrows in her brow that grew ever more reluctant to smooth over. Romance, real or imagined, was for the dumb and the young. 

Nicking a dollop of someone's gel cleanser that smelled like tea tree oil and good health, she rubbed it in quick circles across her t-zone and under her armpits, before rapidly re-twisting her hair into a tight knot.

An improvement, but she still appeared pale and tired. _It doesn't matter;_ she told herself, _no one is looking at you._ She eyed the lipstick. _Fuck it._ She _was_ older and she could wear whatever the hell she wanted. Let her lips clash with her hair. Her head already clashed with her heart. Her past with her present. Her desires with her— _oh wait a second._ The color slid across her lips, velvety smooth, and it looked fabulous on her, drawing attention from the circles beneath her eyes with its vivid crimson. _I guess you get what you pay for with Dior._

As if by its own accord, the tube slipped into her back pocket. With a little luck, it belonged to Daenerys, and she'd make a scene; maybe accuse another contender on camera. In her tell-all, the disgruntled PA had called the actress a possessive harpy (her words), who'd rage about every perceived slight. Each part she didn't get was deemed _stolen_ , and she'd call her agent, threatening to "break the wheel", whatever that meant. 

At this point, Sansa was happy to be a cog, and not the pavement. 

Downstairs, the energy was flagging. Make-up that had been immaculate at sundown was melting in the early aughts. Curls were straightening. Gowns were wrinkling. Moods were peevish. It was Sansa's time to shine.

And she'd start with Allyria; smart, beautiful, and impeccably kind Allyria Dayne. With an older brother who was soccer royalty, and a tragically dead sister to mirror Jon Snow's tragically dead mother, she was _the perfect_ wife material. 

"Oh Alayne," she came forward as soon as Sansa waved to her. "I'm so glad you're here."

"I'm sorry I missed your entrance."

"Don't apologize. I was just chatting with Gilly, over there," she gave a cheerful wave to the single mother who was doing her best to fade into a potted bamboo palm. "She told me what you did for her, greeting her at the airport after her first-ever flight. That was so sweet of you."

Part of Sansa wanted to place her hands on the woman's cheeks and squeeze until Allyria realized that nothing any of the producers did was sweet… but that would be self-defeating. Instead, she said. "I was just doing my job. Speaking of which, how are you? Have you eaten? Made any friends? Have you spoken much with _Jon_?" 

And as Allyria explained she was _fine,_ and _no,_ she had not been fed, but _yes_ everyone seemed so nice, and _no,_ she hadn't spoken with Jon since earlier in the night, Sansa called for Myrcella to bring the poor woman a banana and a bottle of water and she motioned for Gendry to follow them with a camera to a quiet, well-lit corner in an adjoining room.

"So, first impressions of Jon... tell me everything," Sansa said as soon as Allyria was done eating, and they'd been chatting long enough for the artist to forget the camera. 

"Well, he's gorgeous," Allyria started.

"He's short and has a patchy beard." Cersei annotated in Sansa's ear. 

"I've had a crush on him since he made his national debut. It was Arthur's last year before retirement, so I actually met Jon then, at a post-season party, though I doubt he remembers. Which is fair... he was sixteen, and I was seven." 

"He better not. We don't need a pedo prince," said Cersei.

"Aw, there is nothing sweeter than a childhood crush turning into something more _._ " Sansa said, ignoring her disembodied mentor. "And I heard that he definitely took notice of you _tonight_ …"

Allyria bit her lip happily. "He said I looked _radiant."_

_"_ Of course he did, you beautiful twit," Cersei said, and Sansa had to agree. In a room full of beautiful women, Allyria had a grace that drew the eye, and eyes to drown in. _Jon Snow is going to love you. Who wouldn't?_

"What else did he say?" she asked, listening patiently while Allyria gushed and Cersei crowed. 

"Blah, blah, blah... boring. Move it along." 

When Allyria floated away, Sansa muttered into the walkie, "I thought you liked the wife-material to be boring." 

"I do... but it's night one, and no one has given me or 'the dude' the first impression footage I need. The only kiss was that whore flight attendant throwing herself at him, right out of the gate. Since then it's like, I'm watching a purity pledge ball, but without the repressed horniness and shame. He's currently craning his neck at that giraffe you brought in from the Vale and as amusing as his emasculation is to me, we need to make him more appealing to the thirsty ladies and gays at home... and find a girl who incites more than dumb boredom from him."

"On it," Sansa eyed Val, sitting in the middle of a crowded divan with Myranda and several other contenders. Sporting a closely shaved undercut beneath her blonde beach waves, and a black jumpsuit with a plunging neckline, she oozed sex appeal and looked nothing like the typical _Promised Prince_ contender (in style at least). She'd be perfect, if Sansa could somehow extricate her from the bunch. 

"Hi ladies," she perched down on the edge of the divan. "How are we doing?"

"Bored-"

"Starving-"

"Regretting my every decision," Val glared at her, all smokey-eyed rebellion, and Sansa stood, yanking the other woman up with her. 

"Walk with me."

"What about us?" Myranda complained, rising, as the other contenders grumbled.

"If this is a ploy to push me at Jon and interrupt him and another woman," Val pulled back. "I'm not doing it. I will not be one of _those_ women. Myranda has been telling me all about the show, and I don't know. This just isn't me." 

"Push me!" Myranda offered. "I'll be that woman. I didn't come here to make friends."

Gendry coughed, muttering "Bingo," under his breath, and Notch, the grip cackled. 

"I'm not pushing _anyone_ into _anything._ In fact, Val, I was hoping to just get some air with you, no cameras," she shot Gendry a look, and he rolled back a few paces. "Myranda, by _all means,_ if you are feeling it, go steal our suitor. I don't think you need pushing. Maybe just Gendry and Notch, to point the way. As for everyone else," she smiled at the other women, "why don't you tell Renly, here, how you're feeling." She snagged the other producer as he tried to sneak by, ignoring his muttered protest. 

Then she turned her back to the women, pulling two cigarettes from Notch's shirt-pocket. He grunted, but when she stuck them both in her mouth for him to light, he grudgingly obliged, and then she led Val into a dim hallway, and out through a side-door, into the refreshing shock of night. 

"Sorry," she said, handing over the second cigarette. "I _knew_ this wouldn't be your thing." They strolled through a quiet corner, amongst the topiaries, away from the cameras and the bright lights of the set. 

"I mean, _fuck_ ," Val laughed. " _I_ should have known. What was I thinking?"

"If I remember correctly, you were thinking you couldn't keep dating other musicians, but you didn't know how to meet anyone _not_ in the scene."

"It was a rhetorical question," Val deadpanned. 

"Fair enough." She liked Val. It was one of the many catch-22s of this job. She hardly ever pulled good material from the contenders she didn't like… but it rarely felt like winning when she spun a woman like Val into a corner. 

She sat down on the ledge of the koi pond, and Val joined her. They smoked in silence, back to back, flicking their ends into the water, watching the giant, speckled carp float to the surface, searching for something more sustaining than ash. With her walkie turned down, it was a blissful moment of peace. Too soon, the ember nipped at her fingertips and Sansa put it out on the cool stone. She tucked their butts into her pocket beside the stolen lipstick. There would be enough garbage for the cleaning crew come morning. 

"You really did just want to get some air, huh?" Val said, eyeing her speculatively. 

"Yeah, well, I felt bad. I'm the one who convinced you to come, and now you're miserable." 

"Well, I mean... I'm not _miserable._ The setting is rather nice." She waved at the castle, and Sansa tried to take it in with fresh eyes. It _was_ rather beautiful, glowing in the dark. _As long as you don't look too close_. "I'm just feeling a bit foolish. I should have known this was a stupid way to meet a guy, after watching women throw themselves at Mance for years. He never noticed any of them... not in a real way at least. Dalla stole his heart by being the only woman immune to his charms."

"Well, she couldn't have been _that_ immune," Sansa teased. "Didn't they just welcome a baby into the world? Isn't that why the band is on a break?"

"Yeah, but _he_ pursued _her. For years…_ I have ten weeks to swim upstream in order to get some _jock_ to notice me. It's like my worst teenage nightmare come to life. _"_

"Well, then go home. Go be with your nephew." 

"Don't I have to be, like, voted off the island, or whatever?"

"No. You can choose to leave, as well. Whenever you want. This isn't meant to be a prison." 

Val shrugged and glanced away, letting her fingertips graze the surface of the water, and Sansa watched her, waiting... hoping she hadn't just shot herself in the foot. 

"Well, I have to get back to work," she said, carefully. 

"Can I stay here for a bit? Have a think?"

"Of course." _I'm counting on it._ "I'll send someone for you, when you're needed."

Sansa left her staring up at the stars. 

She threaded her way through the garden, towards the veranda where she knew they'd have Jon Snow tied up in an endless receiving line of contenders, all trying to make a quick connection before being interrupted by the next girl, ready for a piece of the prince. It was a comically cruel way to kick things off. But it was effective. Opening night set the stakes, ratcheted up the tension and disoriented everyone; even the women who thought they understood the game. 

Hoping to catch a bit of Jon's interaction with Myranda, Sansa rushed around the corner, crashing right into the prince, himself. 

"Ah!" she yelled, and he grabbed her shoulders, righting them both. 

" _You,_ " he said, squinting close, and she inspected him in return. His tie was askew, and dark curls had escaped the swept back style they'd been arranged in. But he looked good; _very_ good for a man who'd been on camera for hours on end.

"Me," she said, stepping back. The platform was clear of contenders. Only Lem and Bronn stood off to the side, eating out of a bag of chips. "Where is everyone?"

"I think Tyrion is off, arguing with Cersei, and I begged Podrick to block the path from the house. Keep the hounds at bay."

"The hounds?" she quirked a brow. "Calling the women bitches on night one. Poor form, Jon Snow."

" _What?_ That's not-I didn't call them-That's not what I meant," he sputtered, and she straightened his tie with a smile. 

"It's okay, Lebowski. I'm just teasing you."

" _Ugh, don't._ Please. I didn't mean to call myself the _dude_. I just froze up. This is all so fuckingawkward." 

"Of course it is," she soothed, brushing invisible dirt from his shoulders. He had nice shoulders. Not so wide, they'd overwhelm his slender frame, but enough to make him formidable. _Strong_ , but in a lean, bladelike way. "It's meant to be."

"I thought it was meant to be romantic."

"That too. Hence, the candlelight, and the roses, and the beautiful women, everywhere you look." 

"Speaking of, how's your back?" he asked, catching her off guard. They were still standing quite close, though she'd left off tidying his appearance. 

"Hurts like a bitch." 

"So, you didn't ice it then."

"No, Jon Snow. I did not _ice_ it. I've been _working._ And I'll continue to work until you finally give us the shot we need." 

This earned her a frown. And some personal space. "You sound like the producers." 

"I _am_ a producer!" _What did he think she was?_ "Look, I know you are tired, and you probably just want to hole up in your room right about now, before catching the next plane off this cursed island." He nodded. "But, you can't. Just like I can't burrow into my bed and sleep for the next thirty-six hours, which is what _I_ want to do. But, if you buck up, and forget the cameras and the oddnessof it all, and have some genuine conversations with some women, that'll put you and I that much closer to what we really want." 

"I've been _trying_ ," he argued, and she rolled her eyes, sweeping his hair back into place. It was rather glorious hair. 

"Your version of trying has Cersei in my ear, threatening to re-shoot the entire night, and I promise _you,_ my back will not bear that. You don't want to be personally responsible for my chronic pain, do you?"

"Okay, now I see it," he said, and she was drawn to his hands as he fussed with his cuffs before crossing his arms. 

"See what?"

"That you're a producer. _Your manipulation is showing_ ," he did his best stage whisper, letting his eyes slide down her body, like she had a skirt tucked into her panties. _So he was clever. Fine._ That was fine. As long as he wasn't funny. Cersei hated when the princes thought they were funny. 

"I wasn't trying to hide it."

"Fine. Produce me. Tell me what to do, to make this miserable night end." 

"First of all, stop telling yourself you're miserable. Don't say it. Don't joke about it. Don't even think about it. Every time a snarky thought crosses your mind, we can see it all over your face, okay? You'd be terrible at poker."

"That's part of the problem. I can't get out of my head. Especially with the cameras all around."

"Shouldn't you be used to that?" she said, and he shook his head.

"An occasional photoshoot or interview is _nothing_ like this."

"Fine. Maybe this will help." She fished her earbuds out of her pocket, sticking one in her ear and holding the other out to Jon Snow. He stared at her blankly, refusing to take it. "It's just music." She read a GQ interview where he said music was a big part of his pre-game prep. If this didn't work, nothing would. 

"I thought you were going to put Cersei in my ear again," he admitted, and she bit back a smirk, because Cersei chose that moment to re-enter _her_ ear. 

"What are you doing?" She hissed. "You know I can't use footage of him flirting with _you_ , right? When I said, I needed a connection, I meant with _a contender._ " Sansa held up a finger up to the camera, signalling for Cersei to wait. "Fine, but tick-tock, little dove."

"You like Mance Rayder, right?" Sansa asked Jon, pulling out her phone. 

"You get a phone?"

"I don't _get_ a phone. I own a phone. I'm a fucking producer. How many times do I have to say it?" But when she looked up, he was grinning. He was messing with her. "Mance? Or should I play Britney? A little 'Toxic' to put you in the mood?" 

He still hadn't taken the earbud, so she was forced to hold it against his ear. "I don't know what _Toxic_ is, but I do like Mance Rayder. Though, I think you already knew that."

She did already know that. It was her job to know. 

"And for the record, I'm excellent at poker," he said as she found the song she was looking for.

It opened with Val, on the drums, before settling into Mance's simple, sultry, guitar groove. Even Sansa, who had planned just this, was shocked at how quickly the music took hold. She stared into Jon's eyes, watching as his body relaxed, and then shifted back to tension... but a better tension. A _charged_ tension. As Mance growled about _sweet_ lips and _desire_ , Jon leaned closer, his breath changing, and Sansa's own chest swelled. She stepped closer too, because she needed to see the change in him. She needed to see his eyes darken... for _reasons_ … for _professional reasons._ And just as she was high off the surety that it _was_ arousal in those flinty eyes, the song ended, and she pulled back. 

"Feel better?" she asked, signally subtly to Lem and Bronn. 

"Yes, actually."

"Good, because the drummer in Mance's band is here." 

"Wait… what? Really? _Why?"_

"Why do you think? She's a contender. And it was very hard for me to convince her to come on the show. She's kind of regretting her decision."

"Hard same."

" _Jon Snow!"_ Sansa scolded, and he raised his hands in surrender. 

"Sorry. I _will_ stop thinking I'm miserable… for _tonight, at least. I promise."_

"Good. Now come," Sansa grabbed his hand, pulling him from the veranda, as Lem called into his walkie for back up. "Do you _want_ the drummer in Mance's band to go home?" 

"No. I mean, I don't think so. If she's in Mance Rayder's band, she's probably pretty cool, right? The drummer, you said? And is she _northern?_ " he asked, eyes alight and suddenly full of hope. Jon was quite expressive, gesticulating with his free hand, and Sansa couldn't help but admire the way his fingers moved as he talked, or the way his other hand wrapped around her own, warm, and oddly comforting. 

_Gods, I'm lonely._

The thought hit her like sour milk, and she released the suitor abruptly at the edge of the garden path. "Go find out, Jon Snow. She's waiting by the koi pond, all alone." Before he could reply, she ducked behind Gendry and Notch, who had just arrived, and walked away. 

_I just need a good night's sleep._

"Okay," Cersei said. "I can work with this. Notch! Turn your lights up. If this moment is ruined because the suitor looks like a shadow demon, I'm going to lose my fucking mind. Alayne, get inside and show Myrcella how to properly interview the girls. They are walking all over her."

"Where is my suitor?" Tyrion jumped on the line, "What did you do, Cersei?"

"It was all Alayne, dear brother. She sang him a song, and now he's finally dancing." 

" _I'm_ his producer!"

"No… you're the drunk angler who passed out in his boat and somehow woke up with a fish in your lap. Just because you caught him, doesn't mean you know how to cook him."

"And just because your husband went missing, doesn't mean you deserve to run his show."

" _His_ show? _HIS_ show!? You fucking little bottom eater. I'm going to-"

Sansa turned her walkie down. There was nothing productive in listening to the Lannister siblings go at it. _Let Jaime solve that problem._ Inside, she found Myrcella, cornered by several contenders, all demanding to know where their prince was. 

"Thank the gods, you're here Sansa- _shit_ \- I mean Alayne. Sorry… I always forget."

"It's fine, Cella. It's not that big of a deal." _Not anymore._ Using an alias in her professional life was still a courtesy she'd continue for the Starks, but by now it was mere habit that she went by it on set. Most of the crew had changed over in the ten years since her arrival, and the overbearing need to be Alayne, to all but a select few, had receded with time and maturity. Still, it offered a shade of security. 

You never knew who might decide to dig up old dirt. 

And Alayne didn't have any. 

She quietly settled the agitated women, and then it was a blur of couch confessions and room sweeps, soon interrupted when Jon Snow entered, to grab the first impression rose. 

The room broke out in a predictable uproar as the women speculated who it could be for. Practically strangers still, it was hard for them to count who was missing, but unsurprisingly, Myranda was the first to realize that Val had never returned. Sansa ducked behind the cameras, pointing out who was giving good face, and listening on the channel as Cersei confirmed not only the rose, but a kiss. The announcement earned Sansa a few fist bumps and high fives from the crew, and Anguy even ventured to slap her ass. 

"Watch it. Alayne has liquid nitrogen up her cunt."

"How would you know, Harwin? You haven't seen a pussy since you slid from your mother's snatch."

" _Okay_. Let's keep it professional boys," Renly cut in. "Please, no more talk about pussies." He made a disgusted face. "I have enough to discuss with my therapist." 

"And if you touch me again, Anguy, I'm telling Cersei you've masturbated in her office." Sansa said, ignoring the groans of laughter from the others as she looped arms with Renly and walked away. 

"They're harmless."

"I know."

"I, on the other hand, am going to _destroy_ you." He pulled her closer. "So what if your girl got the first impression rose, _again._ It means nothing. The first impression rose never makes it to wifey." 

"Who said she's my pick for wifey?" Sansa grinned back, though the victory felt frustratedly hollow. It used to be more satisfying when things turned out in her favor; when she pressed a few buttons, and people acted just as she meant them to. It felt like _power..._ or at least like a semblance of control. But with each passing season, she found their predictability less appealing, and somehow disappointing. 

_Was this all there was?_

She just needed some sleep, and a shower. But first, they had to get through the rose ceremony; a slog of readying the space, arranging the women, figuring out who was moving on and then determining the order in which their names would get called. All that before Jon Snow gave out a single rose. 

Tonight, Sansa left most of the work to the others, retreating to the parlor, overlooking the rose garden, where Jaime liked to hide. Sure enough, she found him gazing out the window, an elegant silhouette in the moonlight, with only one dim lamp lit by the empty fire. 

"Is it time?" he asked, not bothering to turn around. 

"Soon. Cersei's come down. She's reviewing Jon's choices now. We can't have the prince sending the wrong girl home on opening night."

"No, that wouldn't do at all." He let the curtain fall, shrouding the room in further darkness. His shadow stalked toward her, quiet against the plush rug, until the toes of his polished Italian leather oxfords threatened to meet her more plebeian, scuffed Chelseas. Caring for her leather was low on her list of priorities. 

A knuckle brushed her chin, tilting her eyes from the floor to Jaime's cat-green eyes, and she hated how they still affected her. 

"That color suits you."

"Black?"

He smiled; a dangerous thing. "Red." His thumb swiped over her lower lip, lightly, and Sansa stepped back. _This way lies ruin._

"Like a rose," she said with a shrug. 

"Like blood," he bridged the distance between them. "An iconic combination, don't you think?"

"Cersei is looking for you," she whispered, breaking the spell. Jaime brushed by her, his lips ghosting over her temple with a hushed, _of course._ Cersei. Their safe word. Their reminder. Their gaoler and their salvation. _Cersei is looking for you._ Jaime and Sansa passed that sentence between them, like a water balloon at a Rotary club picnic. 

_Toss it and step back. Drop it, and you both lose._

She took a deep breath, and then traced his steps down the hall to another cozy parlor, this one fully lit and bustling. In one corner, Jon sat on a stool as Ros reapplied his makeup and Podrick went over the contenders' names once more. On the other side, Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion stared at the shot list. Sansa went for the table in the back, with the snacks. 

"Try a lemon bar," Jon said. "They're delicious."

She did just that, rolling her eyes at the wall, before turning to the wayward suitor. "Excuse me, newb, but these lemon bars are _my_ recipe," she took a bite. "I already _know_ they're delicious."

"Why am I not surprised?" he grinned back, looking annoyingly fresh-faced for three in the morning.

"I heard things went well with Val."

"Well, that was the plan, right?" He frowned, dodging Ros as she dabbed at him. "I think my eyebrows are fine, thank you. Pod, who is next? We need to get through this so _someone_ will finally rest."

"So altruistic." She teased, but his grey eyes flicked up with disconcerting clarity. 

"Not really."

"Jeyne is next," Pod said. 

"Another Jeyne?" 

"Yes, Jeyne Poole. She's a social worker from the North. Thirty-two years old-" But Sansa lost the rest, the sound cutting out, as her ears rang, her vision briefly narrowing. _Jeyne... she wouldn't._

"Jeyne Poole, did you say?" her voice sounded distant. _It couldn't be. She wouldn't._

"Yes," Tyrion appeared at her side. " _Jeyne Poole_ . I found her in the _online_ applicant pile. Can you believe it? I daresay she's a diamond in the rough." He was staring up at Sansa, looking exceptionally smug, and she went cold. 

_Does he know?_

"Funny story, Jon," he said, not taking his eyes from Sansa. "Her childhood best friend was a contender on the first season of the show. The original, before WBC picked us up. When Robert, my sister's dearly departed husband, ran the show. I thought Jeyne might add a certain _vintage_ flavor to our tenth anniversary. Who knows? If she makes it far enough, maybe we can even bring her friendback on the island."

Tyrion knew. He definitely knew. 

And Sansa was _furious._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg (covers eyes) this chapter is so long and we're still on night one. I promise I'm not going to be detailing every hour of a ten week production. I'm not...I'm not? I'm really not. I swear. 
> 
> Did I post this without doing a full reread, while I was kind of watching the expanse with my husband? Yes.
> 
> Don't be surprised if I edit a lot of this tomorrow. 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy. Love to hear your thoughts/theories/ideas. 
> 
> I'm excited for this story, and to dig up all of Sansa's buried secrets. My little klepto.
> 
> I also love writing this Cersei.


	4. Chapter 4

She didn't confront Cersei until halfway through the second week.

"Did you know?" she asked, her voice so quiet it could barely be heard above the recording of the last group date; women losing their breath and their dignity in a muddy free-for-all. So far the only casualties had been Bethany Blackwood's veneers and ten soiled wedding dresses, ripped to shreds and thrown in a dumpster behind the castle after the contenders had peeled their bruised bodies from the layers of ruined ivory and lace. 

It wasn't enough to sate the lion. Nothing ever was. 

Now, Sansa's eyes roved across multiple glowing screens in Cersei's dimly lit office. She sought pointy elbows thrust into soft flesh and enameled nails raking across scalps; bonus points if they came away with an extension. She tallied each tear and talon, letting the numbers reveal who was viscous and who was weak and was most likely to fall apart on the confessional couch. 

Cersei paced, tapping her nails against the rim of her glass, ignoring Sansa's question. "Rewind monitor three and slow the replay."

Sansa complied, blowing the frame across the entire wall. Once more Jeyne lost her footing, her hands flying out, unable to stop herself from sliding into the slick. Black sludge stained her sweetheart bodice and sprayed across her face. At half-speed it appeared almost Baroque... each splatter like a leech across her flushed skin, before a dark shadow engulfed her completely; Brienne flying into the picture in a smear of torn chiffon and ruddy muscle. 

If they were making a different show; perhaps one of those science documentaries about the marvels of the human body, Brienne might be considered the pinnacle. Her long body twisted almost preternaturally, each muscle in her arms and back popping in clear definition, leaving Sansa with a surprising pang of admiration at the woman's power and control.

But they weren't making that show. They were making a show where the previous hour had Brienne standing, painfully awkward, as production assistants pushed wedding dresses at her before a group photo-op with Jon Snow in the rose garden. They were making a show where Brienne was the joke; forced into a dress several inches too short and straining at the seams. 

Jeyne Poole had apparently been so angry about it that she laid into Myrcella about the lack of adequate sizing options in front of everyone else on the group date. Later, Sansa had to talk a tearful Cella down, reminding her what her role as a producer was. _You're not here to be their friend_ , she reminded her. _You're here to tell a story. And you did. We got just what we needed._

Was it cheap and cruel? Absolutely. _The Promised Prince_ never pretended to be anything else. 

Jeyne's intervention paid off for her, too. Sansa watched as what should have been an inevitable collision was avoided at the last possible moment when Brienne rolled safely over Jeyne, landing on one knee. When she extended a hand to Jeyne, the white knight tableau was complete. Cersei threw her remote at the wall. 

"Son of a bitch. What is wrong with this cow?" 

Sansa leaned across the desk, pausing everything. "Did you know who Jeyne Poole was? When you cast her?"

"Did I know what? That she knows you? The real you, or should I say the past you? Or is it the you that you are when you are not the you that you are when you are here?" Cersei turned, gazing down at Sansa, her hand wrapped around the stem of her wineglass in quiet contemplation. " Of course I didn't know. I wouldn't do that to you, dove. You know that."

Sansa didn't know. She only suspected. "Well, Tyrion knew. Why did he recruit her?"

"Who knows? Because he's a meddlesome shit, and he's threatened by you. His shriveled little manhood can't handle the idea of a woman being better than him. Or, perhaps he bought into your and Jamie's act. He worries you've usurped him in the race for his beloved brother's affections." Cersei gave her a sly smile. "If it meant humiliating that little monster, I'd sign my name as witness to your marriage tomorrow."

_Fat chance._ "Jaime and I ended our charade a long time ago." _Right when you told us to. Right before I lost the plot._

Cersei cocked her head to the side, her lips turned down in a hard line. "Hm. Well, you play amicable exes better than you ever played lovers." Of course they did. The lines were easier to memorize, and the ad lib less dangerous. 

"Should we stage a fight?" It was a joke, but the pathetic fact stood: if Cersei said yes, Sansa and Jaime would draft a script tomorrow. 

Luckily, Cersei had moved on. "It's Jeyne that I don't understand. Why would she want to be on the show? I thought your kind looked down on our humble trade." 

Sansa stood, filling her rocks glass with Bordeaux, before topping off Cersei's empty vessel. "I don't know. It doesn't make any sense." 

It wasn't so much that her family looked down on reality television, but that they loathed it. And in that, Jeyne had always quite vocally conformed with the Stark viewpoint. Their friendship had never fully recovered from Sansa's choice to join the show. 

"Well, have you come out and asked her?"

"No." Asking would be an invitation; an opening Sansa had no interest in giving Jeyne Poole. Not now. Not here. She already knew what her friend _didn't_ want. As appealing as Jon Snow may be, she was practically married to Theon Greyjoy, or at least she had been the last time Sansa checked. Catelyn would have told her if they'd broken up. _Wouldn't she?_

"Well, if it's bothering you that much, send her packing." Cersei shrugged, resuming the tape. "She was only ever going to be mid-season filler anyhow, and it's not like we can do anything interesting with her now. I assume you won't let me."

"You assume correctly, but I can't send her home early, either. That would only play into her suspicions."

Cersei laughed; a dry rattle. "Suspicions? Of what? That I'm an evil witch who's put a curse on you? That sweet Sansa Stark would never in her right mind choose this life?" She waved towards the wall of screens, her citrine ring sparkling under their harsh glow. "It's been ten years. Can't they accept you've grown up?"

_With my body nailed to the walls of this castle._

"Whatever her motivation, I'm afraid she'll be terribly bored with the truth of my day-to-day. I bet I spend more hours hunched before a computer monitor with a cup of coffee in my hand than she does."

"Hm… let's play it that way then. Do your thing in the shadows and show her we don't lock you in a broom closet each night when your work is done. Let her report back that you're content and competent at your perfectly acceptable and quite sought-after career." Cersei returned to her screens, waving for Sansa to resume the tape. 

_Perfectly acceptable and quite sought-after._ It was funny, that; how two things could be true at once; how her career could be the aspiration of many, yet utterly contemptible by those who should matter most to her. 

" _Fuck me._ Between Margaery's contract, a prince who won't _kiss_ anyone, and your Ghost of Christmas Past showing up, this season is shaping up to be dull as rocks. Just _tackle someone_ _you worthless bear!_ " Cersei screamed at Brienne, who once again found the grace to sidestep a screeching Tyene who'd rushed at the larger woman, full-tilt. "What is the point of having the Hulk as a contender, if she won't take a bitch out?"

"It's getting late. Why don't you rest? I'll finish up here." Sansa grabbed a cashmere throw from the back of Cersei's mid-century leather chaise and wrapped it around her shoulders with a yawn. "I'll find something workable, and if I don't, we'll get it tomorrow... or today, I should say." She glanced at the time. It'd be dawn when she finished reviewing the dailies. 

Again, Cersei gave her a long look. "Are you sleeping?" 

"Does anyone during filming?" 

"I suppose not, but the suitor's teammates arrived last night. Aren't you eager to watch the eye candy prance across the lawn?" 

"Watching three professional athletes preen before a gaggle of young women in booty shorts is in Ren and Tyrion's wheelhouse; not mine."

"Fair enough, but I need you on for the evening. And don't worry about your little friend. She won't find anything. It's been ten years, and this isn't an episode of Cold Case Files."

_Why did Cersei's confidence feel worse?_ After a decade under the older woman's tutelage, Sansa had perfected the art of obfuscation. Her sins and her secrets were secure. The collateral damage was that she had rendered herself all but invisible. Jeyne had come all this way, worried about all the wrong things. She'd ask all the wrong questions, see all the wrong truths, and she'd inevitably go home in a few weeks, with the idea that Sansa's life and ambitions were even emptier than she'd originally suspected. 

Maybe she _should_ stage a fight with Jaime. Let Jeyne believe she's stayed for love. It'd be a more satisfying narrative. Simpler and easier to tell than the layered truths. 

She sipped at her wine, letting the dark liquid curl at the back of her tongue, her thoughts writhing like the muddied limbs she watched groping across the screens. Several stories formed before her, but the show was only interested in one; the spectacle of female humiliation, followed by the promise of a plasticine prince, swooping in at the eleventh hour to pluck one fate-struck woman out of the muck and the mire, to sail toward a Happily Ever After… at least until the credits rolled _._

By the time Sansa's back cracked when she bent to turn the monitors off, the lavender of predawn misted the window along the opposite wall. The lawn would be thick with dew; the castle silent. Hot Pie wouldn't arrive for another hour, leaving her on her own for breakfast… or whatever you call the meal you eat just before a sleep that begins when the rest of the world awakes. 

She tried to recall the contents of her cupboard as she penned a few instructions to Myrcella for the morning ahead. _Call the dental surgeon again. If he can't fit Bethany in today, she's going home. Make sure Roslin eats something or she'll faint on the pitch. Margaery and Daenerys must be on opposing sides during today's group date... I'm pretty sure there's an egg or two in the fridge. Not so sure about toast. The potatoes have definitely sprouted. There is a half-eaten bag of gummies in my purse..._

When she left the tower, she had convinced herself that a yogurt parfait was hiding behind her water pitcher, on the lower shelf of the refrigerator. It couldn't have been more than a few days since she'd brought it home from the set. Distracted by the math, she failed to notice how wet the seat of the golf cart was until she had parked her butt on the vinyl. 

  
Her regret was a forlorn echo across the blue lawn as she lurched forward, cutting a divot in the damp earth, before righting the cart onto the pavement. When she passed beneath the topiaries, their crowns hidden in mist, a groundskeeper emerged from behind a rook, just starting the Sisyphean task of clearing the previous night's debris. The arrival of Jon Snow's teammates had spawned an impromptu party that had lasted well into the night. They could hear the laughter from the tower which threw Cersei into a fit of pique that had Sansa hoping her girls were smart enough to go to bed early. There would be no mercy for anyone showing signs of a hangover _this_ morning.

She left the castle grounds behind and puttered through the sleepy village. There were few lights on in the converted fisherman's cottages where the crew bunked, though Gendry was out walking his dog. It'd be several hours before the island really came to life, its inhabitants all attuned to the show's unique schedule. While the cameras were _always_ watching, the real work of filming occurred after the sun passed its zenith, when pheromones and feelings were at their most potent. 

It suited Sansa. She preferred to sleep in the morning with her windows open, letting in the sounds of the sea chase away her nightmares. 

She stopped at the post office first, pausing to rub the plump seed heads of the cotton-grass between her fingers where it grew around the semi-neglected building. Soon, they'd pop open and blanket the island in a cloud of white; the closest semblance to snow Fair Isle had. Inside, her P.O. box offered nothing more than a few bills and a postcard from Arya. _Cheers from Patagonia. You'd dig the penguins. I'm digging up the dinosaurs._

At least one Stark sister had followed through on her childhood dreams. 

Throwing the pile on the seat beside her, Sansa pulled out of town and up the hill toward her white-washed cottage, the sun creeping up the moor in her wake, piercing the rapidly dissipating fog. She heard men's voices ahead, and the sound of gravel shifting beneath the steady rhythm of feet. Three runners emerged just as she pulled up to her gate; Jon Snow and presumably his teammates, though she was too tired to recall their names. 

"Do my eyes see true? The ghost of Fair Castle in the light of day?" Jon slowed to a walk as he veered toward her. "Tormund, Grenn, come meet the infamous Lady in Black. She haunts the hallowed halls. Don't get too close, lest she bewitches you into spilling all your secret desires."

She brushed aside her amusement. "The whole crew wears black." 

"Sure," Jon shrugged, "but no one wears it quite like you." Sweat trickled down his brow as he leaned over her with a boyish smile, one hand gripping the top of the cart. "Black and white and blood red, like a Kazimir Malevich painting." _Where was this playfulness when the cameras were rolling?_ Not that Cersei would approve the references to twentieth century art. Too much Intellect was inaccessible and thus unattractive in a promised prince. 

It was expected for the talent to be stiff in the first few days of shooting, but with the aid of alcohol and a carefully designed isolation that made the contenders crave connection, everyone usually loosened up after a few days. The women were coming along nicely, but not Jon Snow. 

He had maintained a maddening reserve; not rude exactly, but never forthcoming, and with the exception of his opening night kiss with Val in the garden, he was notably aloof with the contenders. Sansa had decided that it wasn't unease that held him back, but a decision. He was perfectly capable of turning on the charm. He chose not to.

_Then why did he come on the show?_

It was a mystery she was no closer to understanding. 

"So you're _not_ a contender then?" The older of the two men asked, walking up beside Jon. Both stood a head taller than their team captain, but all three exuded a rather irritating aura of extreme well-being. It thrust Sansa back in time; to high school track meets and her first awakenings to the uncomfortably carnal allure of male thighs, tan lines, and leg hair.

"She's a producer," Jon answered for her. "Have you come to drag me back to the castle so soon? Tyrion said we could go for a run."

"Well, show me your hall pass," she teased before nodding at her drive. "Believe it or not, I'm off the clock. I'm just heading home."

"Is that your place?" the younger man said. "Do you think I could get a glass of water? I'm hungover as fuck."

"Leave her alone, Grenn. Here," Jon hit the thick-necked man in the chest with his water bottle. Sansa knew little about the sport, but Grenn looked more suited for boxing, or perhaps rugby, than soccer. He was a blunt force object, to Jon's precision instrument. 

"Hard pass." Grenn pushed the offering away. "Who knows where your slutty lips have been the last week. I ain't after no herpes, even if it came from a model."

Sansa laughed, "I assure you, everyone on the island is tested before arrival."

" _Everyone?_ " the shaggy red-haired, Tormund, asked, waggling his bushy eyebrows at her. 

"Everyone that _our prince_ has any business kissing." She enjoyed the flicker of annoyance that crossed Jon's features. He really needed to get over that word. "Either way, you are welcome to my water. Just get the latch for me." She gestured, and Jon clapped the other two men's backs. They moved in tandem to open her vine-covered gate before taking off at a sprint up her drive. Jon, however, slipped into the seat beside her, placing her mail on his lap. Arya's postcard was touching Jon Snow's sweaty thigh. Her sixteen-year-old self would have a stroke. 

"Sansa Stark?" He read the top envelope. "That you?". 

"Don't read my mail," she snatched it away. "It's rude."

He looked unrepentant. "Sansa…" He said her name slowly, transforming the last 'a' to an 'uh' in the back of his throat. "You're northern."

"Detective Snow," she pressed hard on the pedal, knocking Jon hard against the seatback. "Shouldn't you be running? I wouldn't want you to fall out of shape between seasons. No offence, but I don't think a career in television is for you, and you're too old to rest on your laurels." Though he didn't look it. Half a lifetime spent at the most elite levels of the world's most popular sport had given Jon Snow the glow of perpetual youth. But for a few charming creases at the corners of his eyes and a slight rasp to his voice, he could pass for twenty-five. "I'm sure there are hordes of younger, fitter players ready to steal your place on the pitch."

"Well, that's the nature of the game." He leaned back, resting his hands behind his head, legs stretched over the dash. "I already have a reputation for being the laziest player in the league. Seems a waste to change the perception at this point in my career." He _was_ known for walking more than any other player, but with six Ballon d'Or awards, she doubted it had anything to do with idleness. She recalled a quote she'd found during her pre-season research; _only Jon Snow has figured out how to win matches by moving less than everyone else;_ an excellent skill for a player rubbing up against the average age of retirement. "And, no offence taken. I have no intention of spending a minute more than what I'm contractually obligated to in front of a camera."

She could feel him staring at her, but she kept her eyes on the narrow lane. He wanted her to ask, she could taste it. _Why am I on the show, Sans-uh? Ask me._

She wouldn't. She wanted the truth, and she learned long ago she wouldn't get it from answers too readily given. Truth needed space; it lived between words, and where eyes wandered. It was complicated, multi-layered, and rarely found during round one. She wouldn't ask him. 

Instead, she parked beneath the shade of the oleaster tree, leaving just enough room for the Westerosi Champions League all-time top scorer to avoid the wild rose spilling over the low dyke that separated the moorland from her equally wild garden. Tormund and Grenn were already sprawled across her porch, tanned arms slung across their eyes, legs stretching toward the pale blue sky, flashing pale skin where their shorts bunched at their groins. Male thighs, and tan lines, and leg hair did not belong in the home of Sansa Stark, age thirty-three. She stepped over their heaving chests, doing her best to ignore the pang of hunger in the hollow of her throat. They'd be gone, soon. 

"I'll be right back," she said, pausing at her door. Jon stood back in the yard, staring up at her weathered fieldstone walls. 

"This is a nice spot you have. Does Cersei charge back your salary in rent?"

"This isn't a rental. Do you boys want ice?"

"No thanks, but do you have-"

Jon interrupted Tormund. "I thought the Lannister's owned the entire island."

"All but the half acre we're standing on." In the belly of the beast, Sansa had laid claim to its spleen. It was a precarious place to put down roots, but she'd made it her own. 

"I can't imagine that came cheap."

It hadn't, but that was none of Jon Snow's business. 

"It was a gift from Jaime." She slipped inside without waiting for a reaction. She'd seen it all before. Surprise. Confusion. Judgement. It wasn't what he thought it was, but that didn't make it better. Before entering the kitchen, she dumped her mail and bag on her sofa, the palest pink velvet indulgence she could find; an impractical choice for all but the most single of spinsters. Her eyes lingered on the dead flowers in the vase by the window and the basket of unfolded laundry sitting in the middle of the floor. Later. She'd take care of everything later.

At least her dishes were clean; an easy accomplishment when she hardly ever ate at home. She pulled the water pitcher out to reveal the yogurt parfait just as she'd left it… though perhaps it was a touch older than a few days. A bloom of cloud-white mold coated the shrunken raspberries. And just as she dismissed the temptation to scrape the top off and eat it anyway, Jon reached over her shoulder, pulling the cup from her hand. 

"You're not eating that." He tossed the whole thing in her bin, and she turned to glare at him. Her kitchen was small, but she loved it. Everything she needed was within arm's reach. It was a space made for one, and Jon Snow was taking up entirely too much of it. It was jarring; the nearness of him. Not that he was crossing a line. It was just that she was only ever here, alone. She could hardly remember the last person she'd let into her home. It must have been her mother, but it was more than a year ago that Catelyn had visited, under the pretext of helping Sansa get over her "break-up" with Jaime... 

  
  
O _r had it been longer?_ That a year had ceased to be a meaningful increment of time in her life was a disconcerting thought. 

While she froze in the face of her own inconsequence, Jon began rooting through her cupboards, closing each with increasing agitation. When he found the glasses, green glass tumblers, etched with vines and flowers that she'd found at a flea market between seasons, he poured three, handing one to her, before strolling out the front door with the other two. 

She'd barely taken a sip before he was back, his flint-grey eyes scolding her over some unspoken offence. 

"If you're hungry, you'll have to head back to the castle," she shrugged. "I wasn't expecting company."

"And what do you live off of? Air? The tears of the women back at the castle?"

"Give the ghost metaphor a rest. I eat on set most of the time." 

"You need balance."

She attempted to push him back toward the door, ignoring the firmness beneath his sweat-soaked shirt. "I already have a mother, thank you very much. I'll call her if I'm looking for advice. I didn't invite you in to lecture me. In fact, I don't recall inviting you in at all." Of course, she was ineffectual against his stolidity. Instead of giving way, he gripped her shoulders and turned them both around, so it was she who was forced to step back out into the sunshine, while he stared smugly back at her from her shadowed entrance. Before she could re-enter, he shut the screen door and latched it.

"Entertain the guests. I'm making you breakfast."

"With what? Air?"

But he disappeared, leaving her to stare helplessly at a bra hanging over the side of her laundry basket. _What other embarrassing details of her life were out for Jon to see?_

"Sorry about him," Tormund said. "He's used to being the boss."

"So, he's always like this."

"More or less."

"It's fine." Sansa spent her life among megalomaniacs. If anything, Jon Snow's brand of bossiness seemed almost tender; a thought she did not want to interrogate. She was too tired for self-reflection, and she was definitely too tired to entertain. Fortunately, Grenn and Tormund seemed content to doze, and she was happy to join them, curling up in an Adirondack, listening to the bees buzz above her head, and the waves crash against the cliffside in the distance. 

Time passed and then Joan Armatrading's gentle voice rolled out through the screen door. He had ventured into her bedroom, he'd dug through her records, and he'd dropped the needle on "Love and Affection." It wasn't even the title track. _What game are you playing, Jon Snow?_

Whatever it was, she couldn't fault him for execution. She didn't even attempt resistance.

_Now if I can feel the sun_

_In my eyes_

_And the rain on my face_

_Why can't I_

_Feel love_

_I can really love_

_Really love_

_Really love_

_Really love_

_Really love_

"Sansa," he whispered in her ear. She opened her eyes to him crouching before her, holding up a plate of golden brown pancakes, topped with honey and powdered sugar. 

"You _really_ didn't have to do this."

"I _really_ did. Baking ingredients are literally the only foodstuffs in your house."

"I'm sure I have a can of tomato paste, and maybe some beans rolling around the back of the pantry…" she trailed off with a yawn. 

"Whatever, Thumbelina. Do I need to stage a raid on the castle pantry?"

"No. Gods, I'll go grocery shopping...in nine weeks." He scoffed, but she caught his hand. "I'm kidding, mostly. But seriously, I promise you I'm a functioning adult when we aren't in the thick of production. Mostly because Hot Pie is off island then, and I _have_ to fend for myself." She gave him her brightest smile, but he returned it with a frown.

"You live here year-round?"

"Yes."

"With Jaime?"

"No, he stays at the Cliff's Edge when he's on the island," she tilted her head toward the gleaming, modern monstrosity perched in the distance. It had been built by Tywin Lannister in the sixties, but these days only Cersei and Jaime stayed there. Tyrion had claimed the apartment above the Merry Maid, and even Myrcella chose to bunk with the rest of the crew.

"I watched the Architectural Digest tour of that place. It's pretty swanky." Tormund said.

"Are you an architecture buff?" Sansa asked. 

"No, but my wife is a huge fan of your show; Jaime Lannister, in particular." He stared at her with a little too much intensity, and Sansa bit into a pancake, trying to imagine Tormund's _wife._ People didn't have _wives_ in her world. They talked about _wifeys_ , and rings, and weddings… but never wives. 

Wives were like children or summer vacations or family game nights or... _balance._ Concepts for another time, another place, and other people. 

She chewed her food in silence, watching Jon wander the garden, stopping every few paces to stretch. The pancakes were perfect; fluffy, with crisp edges. 

"I recognize you," Tormund said, interrupting her appreciation of Jon Snow's hip flexor. "You _did_ date Jaime Lannister. I remember now...it was the year my wife was suddenly a Daily Sun reader. My lawd, she _hated_ you."

_Of course she did._ Half of Jaime's appeal was that to the world, he belonged to no one. Sansa understood that. Jaime did too. But it was a myth, and for a time it was a myth that wasn't working for him, or the person to whom he actually belonged. 

"It wasn't that serious." Sansa took another bite, wondering why she'd said that. There was no reason to, and it wasn't exactly true. It was deadly serious. It just wasn't real. 

"There were memes. Did you get hate mail?"

"I don't know," She eyed Jon. He had stopped stretching, and was now standing at the steps of her porch, eyeing her plate. "When I lived with Jaime, his PA sorted our mail. He'd have thrown that out before it ever reached me."

"You _lived_ with him." Jon said, glancing up. "And he gave you a house… that sounds serious." 

Jaime Lannister owned ten houses; penthouses and mansions, every one. A one-bedroom cottage on a semi-deserted island was hardly an extravagance. Jon Snow probably owned ten houses too. She wondered at the gifts _his_ exes had received. It had been hard to find anything about his prior relationships. Like the Lannisters, he had the wealth to stay out of the tabloids if he wanted to. He had the wealth that made joining the cast of a trashy reality television show seem like an act of lunacy. 

But the man standing before her was in complete control of his faculties. Annoyingly so. 

"You should get back to the castle, before they send a search party," she rose to her feet. "Thanks for the breakfast. It was nice meeting you guys. I'll see you this evening." 

While the others hopped down from her porch with cheery farewells, Jon ignored her dismissal, following her into the house with the remaining dishes. Wordlessly, they loaded them into her dishwasher, bumping elbows in her too narrow kitchen, meeting eyes in a space too small to look away. 

"I'm sorry," he said, leaning back against the counter. 

"For what?"

"For invading your privacy. For prying. For digging up old wounds." She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. It was clear he thought she was a mess… maybe a riddle. _Is that it, Jon Snow? Do you like games? Is that why you joined our stupid, deadly show?_ Though, if he thought Jaime caused her wounds, his chess pieces were mostly off the board. 

Jaime was but a symptom. Her ailment was a disease; one that had so altered her chemistry that the idea of fake-dating her mentor's incestuous lover seemed like the best course of action when it had been presented to her. That she was weak enough to catch feelings for him toward the end was certainly another strain on her heart, but it had learned to deal with reversed blood flow long ago. 

_Do you know what happens when your blood flows backwards, Jon Snow? Your heart tries to make up for it by working harder, but with time it grows too large and less able, until your fingers and your toes turn blue. Your body dies as your heart grows larger and weaker and less able until it eventually stops trying. The end._

"You didn't hit any major arteries," she said with a yawn. "Just don't call me Sansa. I go by Alayne, professionally."

"Okay, I'll call you Alayne at the castle, but what about here?"

"What about here?"

"Can I call you Sansa?"

This time, she pushed _him_ out the door. This time, he stood in the sun, and she stared back from the shadows. "You won't be here again. This was a happenstance."

"But if it isn't, may I call you Sansa?"

"It was... but sure. Why not?" His smirk told her she was wrong. 

His presence on her steps the next morning, when she once again returned home after sunrise, proved it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a few of you have mentioned that this doesn't really fit the "dark sansa" bill...and I agree. I'm removing the tag. She's more sad than dark, and though she made some dark decisions, as I write this fic, I realize her arc in the present timeline is not one about darkness...so there's that. 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It is WAY longer than I expected it to be, but I enjoyed writing it so much. The second half is basically me indulging on my little beach house vacation fantasy, because I'm desperate to go anywhere that isn't my house. 
> 
> I need a vacation, ya'll.


End file.
